


circumstances be damned

by emryses



Series: conversations between inmates [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Canon-typical language, Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e06 Face It You're Gorgeous, Relationship Discussions, Swearing, Talking, post 9x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emryses/pseuds/emryses
Summary: "We never really talk about anything, man.”“You ever think that was our problem?”“No. I think our problem was you refused to take your fuckin’ meds, ran away with your crazy, unstable mother, and your crazy-ass sister tried to ruin your life and kill me.”





	circumstances be damned

**Author's Note:**

> haven't written anything since 2015 what up

The first few days they are together can really only be described as euphoria.

Which has to be a fucking joke, because they’re in _jail._

Ian still couldn’t believe that Mickey was _here_. He felt that he had given up that dream when he watched Mickey cross that border and drive into the sun. But now Mickey was laying beside him. And he really couldn't believe it.

Prison wasn’t as bad as the first time around, Ian thought. This time helped because he wasn’t so manic. Also, Mickey. Yeah, Mickey definitely helped with the whole being in jail thing. They mostly stayed quiet, keeping to themselves, and no one would usually bother them. The whole “Milkovich” name helped a bit, people mostly stayed away, and Mickey made it pretty damn clear early on that no one was to fuck with Ian. So it was usually just the two of them, day in and day out. Together.

Ian honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.

They were constantly by each other’s sides, at meals, in the showers. It was more than just being protection for one another, Ian doesn’t think he has spent a single night in the top bunk in their cramped cement cell. Instead, he and Mickey spent their nights together in “Mickey’s bed” curled around each other. Not the most comfortable, but it wasn’t unlike Ian’s bed in the Gallagher house.

Sometimes, when Ian would wake up in the middle of the night he would think that he was back in that bed with Mickey. He would sit up and open his eyes, expecting to see Liam curled up across from him — only to be met with a blank, cement wall. Sometimes, when it was really bad, Ian would panic, and the too-small walls of their cell would begin to close in on him, and everything would be too hot, too cold, too much.

But Mickey would be there, immediately, whispering, “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” into his ear, and leaning up against Ian’s side until Ian would calm down and they would just lay together in silence, until (maybe) they fell back asleep.

Mickey has nightmares a lot. This isn’t exactly new information to Ian, it isn’t the first time he and Mickey had shared a bed. Mickey often wakes up on-edge, panicking about something that he just brushes off as, “just a dream.” Ian thinks it’s probably worse because of jail, feels a pang of guilt because _he_ is the reason Mickey is in jail.

**

They’re outside sharing a smoke when the whole thing sorta starts.

“How did you find me?” Ian asks.

“You were all over the internet, Ian, it wasn’t hard,” Mickey said, with a bit of a laugh.

Ian looks across the yard, shifting where they’re sitting with their backs against the wall, “But, like, tell me.”

“Why?” Mickey asks, like what Ian said is one of the dumbest things that has ever come out of his mouth.

“Because I want to know,” Ian said, “Because I’m curious. Because I want to know why you even showed up here.”

“I don’t get why that shit is important. We never really talk about anything, man,” Mickey said as if that is supposed to be an answer.

“You ever think that was our problem?” Ian questioned.

Mickey took a long drag of the cigarette, “No. I think our problem was you refused to take your fuckin’ meds, ran away with your crazy, unstable mother, and your crazy-ass sister tried to ruin your life and kill me.” Mickey flicks some ash off the end of the smoke and passes it towards Ian.

And, well, Ian couldn’t really argue with that, could he?

“But, like, do you ever think we could have been better if we, like —”

“What?”

“Actually _talked_ to each other.” Ian takes a drag and passes the cigarette back to Mickey.

“About what?”

Ian shrugs, “Anything. Everything.”

Mickey finishes the cigarette and throws the butt on the ground. He looks like he’s considering what Ian’s said, but before he can do anything about it the buzzer calls. Back to work. Mickey swings himself up and flashes a smirk at Ian.

“Later, fuckhead.”

**

Ian thinks a lot. When he was a kid he was thinking about the army, his siblings, where the fuck his mom was. Later on, it was Mickey. Ian thought about Mickey a lot. Whether Mickey liked him or not, whether Mickey was actually gay, whether Mickey was jealous, whether Mickey missed him when he was in juvie.

Then, the whole bipolar thing made his thinking go off the rails. Ian had so many conflicting thoughts about anything and everything, about nothing sometimes.

Ian used to be really good at talking to people, too. To Lip, to Mandy, and even sometimes to Mickey. He used to be really good at telling Mickey what was going on inside of his mind, even if Mickey didn’t want to hear. He doesn’t really know when that stopped.

That’s probably how he realized that he and Mickey had been in the joint for almost a month now and he hasn’t told him about Monica.

“Monica died.”

Mickey’s head shoots up from where he was hunched over on the bed. “Holy shit. For real?”

“Yeah. Right after you left for Mexico. A brain aneurysm.”

“Fuck...” Mickey breathes out, shifting around uncomfortably where he’s sitting.

“It, uh, really messed me up for a while.”

“She what made you manic?” Ian hears the unspoken, _again,_ that he knows is attached to that question.

But he isn’t going to lie. “Definitely a contributing factor.”

Ian continues after that. He tells Mickey about Monica’s funeral, how alone he felt in grieving her, how guilty he felt _for_ grieving her. Ian wants to tell Mickey these things, wants to tell him all his thoughts, and so he talks. And Mickey listens. 

**

If Ian was always good at talking, Mickey had always been good at listening. The issue is Ian wants Mickey to talk, he wants to hear about Mickey’s day, what he had to do when they were apart if anyone tried to fuck with him.

Also Mexico. Ian was really curious about Mickey’s life in Mexico. But Ian wasn’t so sure how to broach that subject without Mickey shutting down completely. But there were so many things Ian wanted to know: _What were you doing over there, Mickey? What was your life like? You said you were working for a cartel, what exactly were you doing? Was this really worth leaving Mexico? Was I really worth it?_

It’s a continuous push and pull to get Mickey to do anything. And like everything else in their relationship (for the most part) it has to start with a small push from Ian.

“I slept with a woman.”

The lights are out, and it’s one of those nights where they can’t sleep. Mickey had already fallen asleep a little while back but had woken up quickly after, breathing heavy.

Mickey turns his head to look at Ian, his breath ghosting across Ian’s cheek. “The fuck? You did what?”

“I had sex with a woman.”

“Like hell, you did,” Mickey grunts.

Ian lets out a small laugh, “No, I — I did.”

Mickey laughs back, a little disbelievingly.

“And?”

Ian shivers a little, thinking back to the situation. “Never. Again.”

Mickey actually lets out a real laugh now, and Ian hates him (but loves him) a little for it.

“So why did you do it?” Mickey asks him, and Ian can still _hear_ the smile on his face.

Oh, fuck. Ian hadn’t really thought about this part of the story. “It was, um, this thing. With this guy I was seeing.”

“What kind of thing? Like a threesome?”

“No, _no,_ it was, uh...” _How do you explain Caleb?_ “Long story short, I was seeing this guy, he slept with his high school girlfriend, but claimed it wasn’t actually cheating because it was with a girl. Not a guy.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey spits out.

“That’s what I said.”

“So, what, you went and had sex with a chick to get back at him?”

Ian thinks about that. “Kind of. He thought no one was one hundred percent gay, straight, anything. And it did kinda make me think about how I had never tried anything with a woman, so I did it.”

Mickey laughs again. Like an actual laugh, and once again Ian hates him (loves him) for it.

“Oh, fuck you,” Ian laughs along with him.

“You had sex with women,” Ian says to Mickey, a little while later. And there it is, that little push.

But Mickey just says, “Yeah.”

“Angie Zahgo,” Ian pushes again.

Mickey grimaces, “Uh, yeah.”

“We never really ... talked about it much,” Ian turns onto his side, so he can face Mickey.

“What? Angie Zahgo? Why do you wanna talk about me fucking Angie Zahgo?” Mickey says, sitting up in the bed a little. And Ian can’t help but think _got him_.

“No, you having sex with women. In general.”

“Why would we talk about that?” Mickey spits out.

“Because I’m curious,” Ian laughs a little, “How did you ... y’know. How did you do it?”

Mickey shrugs again, “I dunno man, it wasn’t very hard.”

Ian _hmms_ , “Yeah I could see how that would be an issue.”

Mickey straight up punches him in the arm, “Fuck you. No, like, I could do it. But it got harder — or less hard, you fuckin’ asshole — the longer I um, the more I realized I was gay.”

Ian’s still chuckling from his dumbass joke, but eventually, he quiets down and laces his fingers with Mickey’s. They’re looking at each other now, their eyes adjusting to the dark.

“I cheated on you with a woman,” Mickey whispers.

Now, that was the last thing Ian was expecting to hear from Mickey’s mouth, so the only response he can come up with is, “Huh?”

“Don’t be mad, please,” Mickey whispers, and Ian actually hates the desperation in his voice.

“I’m ... not,” Ian says, even though, yeah he kinda is. “When?”

“When you fucked off with Monica,” Mickey explains, “I went fuckin’ crazy man. You weren’t answering me, I honestly didn’t think you were even gonna come back. And I ... there was this chick. Red hair. And we couldn’t, well, I couldn’t ... it just didn’t end up working. But I did it.”

Ian considers this, “Huh...” he says.

“I also paid a guy in a park for a blowjob.”

 _That_ hurts, though. “Oh.”

“And then you came back,” Mickey finishes, and he turns his back away from Ian like he’s going to go to sleep. The conversation is over now, and Ian has all these emotions, but he pushes them down for later. He pulls himself closer and wraps his arm around Mickey’s waist. Because he is hurt (though maybe he shouldn’t be allowed to be) and he knows Mickey, and Ian knows Mickey’ll be beating himself up emotionally for weeks for admitting this kind of shit to Ian.

Though Ian thinks it might be good that he did.

**

“I can’t really remember me breaking up with you,” Ian says out of the blue a couple days later.

They’re in their cell again, after dinner. It’s really the only place they can talk about this shit.

But Mickey doesn’t say anything, Ian just watches where Mickey’s shoulders get tense where he’s taking a piss across where Ian is sitting on the bed.

So Ian just continues, “When I think about it it’s just so fuzzy — blurry, more blurry than my memories of when I’m manic. I mean, I knew I was doing it. But the whole thing, the way it went down, the shit I said to you. Sometimes I don’t feel like it was actually me who said those things.”

Mickey’s washing his hands, angrily. “Well, it fuckin’ was.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ian says, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“You know, your bipolar shit doesn’t excuse everything you did,” Mickey spits, rounding on him and suddenly angry. Understandably angry.

That makes Ian look up again, “I know,” he says softly.

“Do you?” Mickey counters accusingly.

“ _Yes,_ ” Ian says, standing, grabbing Mickey’s shoulders and squeezing.

Mickey sighs, and shrugs off Ian’s hold, going to sit back on the bed. Ian goes and leans against the wall opposite, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He probably shouldn’t tell Mickey this _now_ , because he’s clearly already annoyed, but Ian’s been thinking about it constantly since Mickey told him about Redhead and Park Guy.

“I cheated on you, too,” Ian admits.

Mickey just grunts, “Yeah. The porno.”

Ian sorta kinda wants to die, “Yeah, but um...”

“More than that?”

Ian sighs, “Yeah.”

Mickey closes his eyes, “Fuckin’ hell, Ian...”

“I never fucked anyone else other than the porno,” Ian’s fast to explain, “It was like ... a blowjob here, a mutual handjob there.”

Mickey barks out an unfunny laugh, “Yeah, just hand ‘em out like it’s fuckin’ candy, who the fuck cares?”

“Mick...” Ian starts.

“When?”

“The summer we were together. Before the porno.”

Mickey gapes at him a little in disbelief, “Jesus, Ian.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey spits, pointing his finger straight at Ian’s face, getting off the bed to do so.

At this moment, Ian’s a little glad Mickey can’t just storm out on him, “I was—”

“Remember how your shit doesn’t excuse every fuckin’ mistake you make?” Mickey shouts, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the guard in the hallway who hits the door, universal-guard speak for, _shut-the-fuck-up-or-I’ll-make-you._

Mickey’s still breathing hard, and Ian backs up into a corner just to give him as much space as possible. After a little while, Ian can only say, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Mick.”

Mickey shoots him the finger, but goes back to settle in on the bed again, pulling his knees up to rest his arms there. “Sorry I got mad.”

Ian rolls his eyes slightly, going to sit next to Mickey. “You’re allowed to be mad about me cheating on you.”

“You weren’t mad,” Mickey says.

“Of course I was mad that you cheated on me, but I also fucked off on you,” Ian’s thought about that a lot since they first talked, too.

“I know you were sick ... it just ... picturing you with anyone else makes me go fuckin’ insane.”

Ian smiles a bit, “I know.”

Mickey shrugs, “Now we’re even I guess.”

“Even?”

“I fucked around on you, and you fucked around on me.”

Ian laughs a bit disbelievingly, “It’s not about being even, Mick.”

“Then what the fuck is it about?”

Ian thinks about that. “It’s about telling the truth, I guess.”

** 

Ian backs off a bit after that. He pushed too far, one of his many faults in their relationship. He always wants so much, so fast, until it’s too much for Mickey.

There’s an unspoken forced distance between them for a while. Mickey’s mad at Ian, he knows that. And Ian lets him be mad for a bit, because Mickey’s allowed to be. And maybe Ian wants to beat himself up a bit for things that he’s done.

They don’t talk for a while after that until one night they’re in their own respective beds for once. (Ian didn’t ask if Mickey wanted him out, he just figured he should give Mickey some space, and Mickey hasn’t said anything about it.) Ian hears Mickey from below him.

“I should have known you wouldn’t come with me,” Mickey says, Ian hating how defeated his voice sounds.

It takes Ian a minute to realize what Mickey is talking about. The border. Mexico. “I wanted to,” Ian whispers, immediately sitting up, “I really, really wanted to.” There’s an unspoken, _I’m here now, please let that be enough._

“Nah,” Mickey whispers back, “You didn’t — but that’s okay, yeah? I know I’ve never been your number one ... anything.”

Ian shakes his head, “No, not true, Mick, that’s not true.”

Mickey laughs cruelly, “Isn’t it? It’s always been me, or something else. Me or your family, me or your crazy mom, me or any other guy you were fucking.”

It’s this moment that Ian realizes: _Woah. I fucked this up bad._ (Though if Ian was being truly honest with himself, he would know that he knew this as a fact when he was facing Mickey that morning on his front lawn.)

And yet, the only thing Ian can think to say is (as always) the wrong thing: “I didn’t not come with you to Mexico because of my boyfriend.”

Mickey stands from his bunk, walking across and placing his hands along the wall like he was bracing himself. His back is facing Ian’s in the dark of their room. Ian thinks — _no, let this be enough._

“Mick, I wanted to I just — I don’t know,” Ian rushes out, pushing a hand through whatever hair he has on his head. “It’s complicated, it was complicated. I had just started feeling stable, like, mentally, physically, I had a decent job doing something that I actually liked doing...”

“I get it, Ian, your life was perfect,” Mickey spits back.

“I never said my life was perfect,” Ian retorts, “When has my life ever been perfect?”

Ian can see Mickey shrug his shoulders. Ian wants to get mad, wants to yell at him, explain why he couldn’t come with him to Mexico, explain how afterward he would dream of tequila and the beach, and Mickey. He wants to explain how when he was manic, part of him would sometimes think _I can get to Mexico_ and have the urge to steal a car and just start driving. But instead, maybe he says the right thing.

“Can we back up a bit?” Ian says softly, “Can you tell me why you think you don’t matter to me?”

“Ian you — you punched me because I tried to help you, and take care of you. You broke up with me after I told you I _loved you_ , and then the only way you would come see me is if my fuckin’ wife paid you to? You lied and told me you would wait for me, you never visited me. You broke up with me, and you left me to fuckin’ rot.”

Yeah. _Yeah._ Ian did all of that shit, there’s no denying it, doesn’t think he ever tried to deny it. But he definitely never tried to think about it, all of the shit he did, manic or not, that was so very fucked up. That hurt Mickey, that he knew would hurt Mickey. He wants to open his mouth, not even really knowing what he’s going to say, but Mickey isn’t done.

“And still — I get out of prison, and the first fuckin’ thing I need to do is see _you_. I still come back to you, think that maybe you would want to come with me but no — no that’s still too fuckin’ much to ask for, isn’t it?” Mickey laughs, meanly, and Ian closes his eyes, pushes his palms into the sockets hard, and tries not to cry. “I always come back to you, only to get left behind.”

Ian bites his lip. “Then don’t,” he whispers.

“ _What?_ ”

“Don’t come back to me.”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ _idiot,_ ” Mickey spits at him, spinning around to face Ian, finally.

“No, Mickey just —” Ian lets out a breath, “ _Please_ , just — if you — don’t let me—”

“ _Let_ you?”

“Jesus, Mickey, please shut up,” Ian whispers, not understanding why he can’t just _say_ what he’s thinking. He moves, so his legs swing over the side of the bunk, he looks at Mickey, and finally just speaks.

“I know I — I treated you like shit, especially when I was manic. I should have visited you, I thought about it all the time, but I had convinced myself that to get better, I had to move on, literally move on from everything in my life, so that included you. And you — you came back, and I wanted to be with you, I wanted to run off to fucking Mexico,” Ian pauses, realizing he’s starting to cry, like _actually_ cry, and he’s glad the room is dark and Mickey can’t see. “I was going to, Mick, I _was_ going to do it, but then I — I thought of my family. Yeah, but I also thought of you. What if I couldn’t get my meds in Mexico? What if I couldn’t keep stable enough? What if I blew your cover and you went back to jail? What if I _fucked_ everything up for you? I couldn’t do that.”

Mickey just scoffs, hands on his hips, staring at the ground. Ian thinks he might be crying, too, but he can’t tell.

“Okay? So that’s why, and — and don’t — don’t come back to me if you ain’t happy with me, if you —”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey growls, stepping quickly on the edge of his bed so that he’s closer to Ian’s height, pulling Ian down and kissing him, hard. Ian has to grab Mickey’s waist just so they don’t literally fall of the bed. Mickey is kissing him deeply, all tongue, pulling him in.

“Wait—” Ian says against Mickey’s mouth, pulling away, “Wait—Mickey, why are you here?”

“Seriously?” Mickey asks, his voice softer now, he’s still holding Ian’s neck with his hands, “After all this time you still don’t understand?”

“Mick, I—”

“You what?”

“I treated you like dirt,” Ian whispers, he’s going to cry, _again._

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers back, “You did.”

“So why the fuck did you come back? You were out — you were in Mexico, far away from jail, far away from me,” Ian’s voice breaks on the last word, and Mickey pulls him closer, their foreheads leaning together.

“You needed help,” Mickey responds like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You didn’t have to do it, Mick you were out, you were free—”

“I wasn’t, really. I mean — yeah, I was out of jail. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do, but I was still hiding constantly. Working on the streets, selling drugs for a cartel, it wasn’t much of a living, it just wasn’t jail.”

“And _this_ isn’t jail?” Ian retorts, actually laughing a bit.

Mickey shrugs, kissing Ian softly but quick, “This is being with you. Circumstances be damned.”

**Author's Note:**

> SOME IMPORTANT NOTES IF YOU CARE  
> \- i’m very new to Gallavich as a couple so please keep that in mind. i just kept hearing these conversations in my mind and had to write them down.  
> \- i have not watched the show past 5x12 so things that are said about 6x01 to 9x06 are written based on me only seeing clips  
> \- great liberties and assumptions made about the american prison system and mickey's prison sentence (hello i'm from canada) i like to think that along with choosing where he got to live out his sentence, mickey also bargained for a reduced sentence.  
> \- 95% of this was written before s10 was announced with cameron monaghan returning
> 
> kind constructive criticism always accepted!


End file.
